


Same As It Ever Was

by beaubete



Series: You May Ask Yourself [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 14:31:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15121457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: As far as lives go, this is three.





	Same As It Ever Was

Saline, cold and salt and puckering.  Chlorine. Alchemical, mineral, guttural; sex.  Come. Sweat and chemicals—saltpetre, it comes to him: the taste of the flash of gunpowder, the flick of flint, the wave of hot steam before an explosion.  Q rips into him with a violence belied by his prim and tidy exterior, all flailing limbs and knit brow as he rides Bond’s cock like he might take it away from him at any moment.  He gives until Bond is sated, slick with his own semen and the oiled sheen of lubricant, and then he slips, changes, kneels low on the bed and coaxes until he’s giving in a different way, lashes like butterflies against the crease of Bond’s knee as he fucks up and in, up and in, and up and up and up and shuddering, breath caught and leaking out in shaking bursts on his leg, plosive and damp.  

Bond touches him first to remind himself that he is there, then to remind Q of the same, and then because he can, slides his nails across the calluses on Q’s palm in his office, brushes the flat of his palm along the sweet plush curve of his arse on the shooting range, tucks his fingers into the front of Q’s trousers, through the front of his pants and then draws them back musky fragrant and salt damp as Q swears and begs to be reminded to wipe the lab’s camera footage later, and then just begs.  Q begs, and Bond gives him everything he asks for.

He leaves.  He comes back.  He leaves, and then he comes back again, and Q lets him until one day he doesn’t, until one day his lashes are spiked wet and his eyes flashing and Bond has wounded him, stabbed him through with a barb sharp and cruel as love.  Vicious, mean thing; Q tells him not to come back, except when Bond does he is soft, pliant, accepting. Viscous as sap, as resin, as tar, and Bond discovers he cannot draw away again, pulled back to the taste of him on his tongue and the smell of him in his nose and the feel of him under his grasping palms.

It isn’t a secret, for all that it is.  No one is surprised when he retrieves Q from his office to take him home.  No one is surprised when Q answers Bond’s phone in the middle of the night.  No one is surprised when he presses Q up against his desk after a terrible, long, lonely mission and kisses him deep and slow and honeyed until the air returns to his lungs—no one but Bond, except that Q keeps touching his lips when he thinks no one is looking, and Bond thinks perhaps he was a bit surprised, as well; the rest of them just nod as if this were a foregone conclusion, some fact known and true.  He takes Q’s wondering fingertips in his own hand, touches them to his own lips, and Q smiles, tremulous and secret.

Busy, they’re busy, taking down regimes and saving the world; by the time he looks around, he has cats and a lover and absolutely no need for anything else.  What if, what if, but he listens to the clanking of the radiator chase away the late autumn chill, Q’s feet in his lap and the warm, furry weight of a cat on his stomach, and it’s the closest he’s ever had to peace, to true and honest peace.  There is a pencil behind Q’s ear but he’s doing the sudoku in ink because he’s a twat and Bond sighs to himself, tucks the weight of this feeling behind his ribs to savour later, turns the page of his newspaper. The rain beats against the windowpane and this is love.

It isn’t a blaze of glory.  He tucks Q tighter against his side, tries to ignore the way he shivers, the pallor of his skin, the chill of white flesh and hot of red blood.  His vision tunnels until all he can see is eyes the colour of the sea in a storm; he pulls at Q’s hand until the knobs of his knuckles dig into the flesh between his fingers and Q holds just as tight.  Medical evac is on its way. Q lays his head on Bond’s chest and the throb in the wrist below Bond’s own slows, stutters. That flutter echoes in his ribcage. Not alone. Not alone, not alone, not— 

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, yeah, I know. This is a pretty pretentious one. It's meant to be read in conjunction with [Once in a Lifetime](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15121433) and [Letting the Days Go By](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15121397), though it's able to stand on its own. The titles for all three and the inspiration for this series of fics come from The Talking Heads' song [Once in a Lifetime](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5IsSpAOD6K8).


End file.
